


we could be laughing lovers

by amsterdamned (Icewolf51), penchant



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icewolf51/pseuds/amsterdamned, https://archiveofourown.org/users/penchant/pseuds/penchant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur hates New Year's Eve. Eames just happens to be there to cheer him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we could be laughing lovers

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Franz Ferdinand song I'm Your Villain. 
> 
> We also need to warn for minor, off-screen character death, so if that doesn't float your boat, don't read on.

Arthur hates December.

It is the worst month of the entire fucking year, and Arthur doesn’t understand why he can’t just delete it from the calendar, and from his life. Caesar added two months right in the middle of the year, so why can’t he take one away?

Goddammit. It’s always toward the end of December when he starts thinking of things as stupid as this.

He rubs a hand over his face, and looks at the clock. 11:28 glows back at him, which means he’s officially worked a 14 hour day. Fuck. Arthur had promised himself he wouldn’t work anything over a twelve hour day two weeks ago, at least until the new year. Although, he supposes, the new year is just a half hour away. It’s not like he missed it by much.

He lets out a sigh, and puts all of the paperwork that’s spread out across his desk back into their folders. He picks up his jacket and heads outside into the biting winter air, leaving his briefcase behind in his office. Right now, Arthur wants nothing more than to get drunk out of his mind and forget he even has a job.

He walks two blocks until he finds himself standing in front of the doorway for a small bar, one that seems relatively empty. Arthur supposes that most people don’t go to hole-in-the-wall bars on New Year’s, but what does he know? He pushes open the door and is pleased to find that there are only around twenty other patrons in the bar, although as far as he can tell, he’s the only one alone.

Arthur fucking hates New Year’s Eve.

It’s a night built around superficial bullshit and that stupid glowing ball and fake talk show hosts and talks of “new year’s resolutions”, which no one ever fucking follows anyways, so what’s the point in making them? One of Arthur’s co-workers has been giving that as an excuse to everything for the past month. _Oh, were we supposed to close that deal today? Oh, well. I guess I’ll just have to make a New Year’s Resolution to pay more attention to deadlines._

The worst part of New Year’s, Arthur thinks, is the emphasis on love. There’s such a push for that New Year’s kiss, or spending New Year’s with a special someone. Last time Arthur spent New Year’s with a special someone, they were dying from cancer, and you can bet your ass that hadn’t been fun.

A small, mean part of Arthur’s brain thinks, _You wouldn’t hate New Year’s so much if you weren’t single._

Arthur scowls at that part of his brain, not even bothering to turn around and look at all the couples lining the bar. He sits down at the seat farthest away from the door, and signals for the bartender, which is kind of pointless, seeing as his back is to Arthur.

When he turns around, Arthur can’t help the punch in his gut, because, well, there’s no denying that the guy’s attractive. Broad shoulders, an insane amount of muscles, and the fullest lips Arthur has ever seen. And, if he’s guessing right, those shadows peeking out from under his uniform are tattoos. So he’s definitely Arthur’s type.

This, of course, just gets Arthur more pissed off, because a guy that good looking is bound to be in a relationship, or straight, and even if he is by some miracle a gay, single man, there’s no way he would ever look in Arthur’s direction. Arthur knows he’s not unattractive, but that man is so out of his league it’s crazy, especially right now, while Arthur’s fresh off of work in his rumpled suit and sporting bags under his eyes.

The man ambles over and says, “What can I get you, love?” and _fuck_ , did he have to be British?

“Something hard,” Arthur says.

The guy raises an eyebrow, and says, “You sure you don’t have any specific preferences? We have quite a few - ”

“Just get me something hard,” Arthur grits out. “Please,” he adds, when the bartender continues to stare at him.

The guy shrugs his shoulders, and Arthur is pretty sure that he’s about to bring Arthur the most expensive drink they have, if only to spite him. Arthur feels like pillowing his head in his hands and never looking up, but that would kind of defeat Arthur’s goal of getting completely and totally hammered.

The bartender returns with something that looks like and smells like whiskey, so Arthur figures it’s probably whiskey. He takes a sip - definitely whiskey - and Arthur’s never really been partial to the taste, but it burns going down, and that’s all Arthur really wants. He knocks back the rest and asks for another one. Arthur can feel the alcohol spreading through his system slowly, a dim warmth.

The bartender comes back with two this time, and before Arthur can say anything, he says, “I’m just assuming. If you don’t want the second one, I’m sure someone else will have it eventually, but you definitely don’t look like you’re going to stop after two.”

Arthur shrugs, not wanting to prove the man right. There’s almost nothing Arthur hates more than being predictable.

He manages to down the next two a little more slowly, distracted by the many New Year’s shows that are streaming from the bar’s two TV’s. Arthur hates himself more than a little bit for getting distracted by that, of all things, but it’s not like he has anyone to talk to. The ball had dropped sometime on his walk to the bar, anyways, so at least he missed that and could maintain some of his dignity.

He signals the bartender for two more, and is pleased when they arrive shortly. Even drunken Arthur can appreciate competence.

And he _is_ well on his way to being drunk, thank God. His thoughts are beginning to feel muddled, and he finds himself laughing at jokes random talk show hosts are making, which is the main sign that he’s well past inebriated. It’s good that Arthur has a day off tomorrow, because while he’s come to work with a hangover before, he’s really not in the mood for it right now.

A little more time passes, and Arthur suddenly decides that he really, really has to pee. He moves to get out of his chair but instead of standing, he falls flat on his ass, and he can’t stop laughing. That’s the one way to tell if Arthur’s truly drunk - although he laughs enough sober, it’s never for this long and this loudly or over something this fucking stupid.

He tries to get up, and encounters some issues controlling his limbs. It’s then he realizes that he may have had a little too much to drink, especially considering his plan was to walk home. He presses his palms against the bar and tries to hoist himself up twice before he succeeds, only to stumble and almost fall again, except forward this time. Luckily, the bartender has quick reflexes and manages to move any and all glasses out of the way before Arthur’s head pitches over.

“Oh, dear,” the man says on a chuckle. “You really are quite drunk, aren’t you, darling?”

Arthur wants to nod his head, but it feels so comfortable against the surface of the bar that he can’t quite motivate himself to move.

“Now, just checking, but you weren’t planning on driving home, were you? Because I’d be inclined to advise you otherwise if you were,” the man continues when Arthur doesn’t reply.

“I’m not gonna drive. ‘M gonna walk,” Arthur mumbles into the table, his words slurring together.

“Not sure that’s much better, really.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur says, mustering the energy to lift his head off of the bar. “I can take care of myself.”

“I have no doubts that under normal circumstances you could,” the bartender says. “But right now, you are trashed beyond belief, and I think you probably need some assistance.”

Arthur says nothing, but he’s starting to think that maybe that’s a good idea. He really isn’t feeling that good. “Maybe,” he manages to get out, and then his head slams back against the bar as he passes out.

***

Eames sighs heavily, pulling his tie loose around his neck and taking the towel out from his pants. The bar has cleared out by now, and it’s nearly 4am, so he decides that it’s time to head out and... take this man home, or something.

He runs a hand over the man’s hair, trying to rouse him gently. He groans and rolls his face to the side, so his cheek is on the bar and he is facing away from Eames.

“Come on, darling, it’s time to get you home,” Eames says as he walks around the room, turning off lights as he goes. He finally makes his rounds and the man is stirring lazily, and usually, Eames would just kick him out and get home to have some late dinner and a wank. But there's just something about him, perhaps how he's wasted alone on New Year’s Eve, or maybe because Eames is so attracted to him it actually cripples him slightly.

Eames takes the man under his arm and hoists him up so he’s leaning on Eames’ side.

“First off,” Eames says gently, “What’s your name?”

“Bond. James Bond.” The man winks, like he thinks he’s being clever. Eames lets out a soft laugh and walks toward the door, awkwardly pulling the keys out from his pocket.

“Alright, Bond, James Bond. Do you have another name, one less irritating to say? That would be much appreciated.”

The man giggles. “Arthur,” he says, and Eames wonders if he giggles like that when he’s sober.

Eames locks up the bar with his free hand, using it afterwards to support the man further. They walk slowly to Eames’ car, and Arthur rambles on about something or other, Eames only vaguely listening.

They approach Eames’ Porsche, and Arthur wolf whistles. When Eames actually makes a move for the car, Arthur gapes.

“This is yours?” he asks, utterly astonished.

Eames nods, but says nothing else. He opens the passenger side door and trusts Arthur’s ability to close it. He walks to the driver’s side and gets in, watching as Arthur fumbles clumsily with the seat belt. Eames reaches over to help him, grazing his chest as he does so. Arthur gasps, and Eames ignores him.

“So, where do you live, Arthur?” Eames asks, starting up the car and putting the heat on, shivering from the freezing New Year’s weather.

Arthur slurs out an almost unintelligible address and leans forward, as pale as a sheet.

Eames’ eyes widen. “If you vomit in this car, I’ll make you pay for it to get cleaned.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, no, sorry. It’s just... so embarrassing.”

Eames tilts his head as he rubs his own arms quickly. Arthur, as far as he can tell, seems to be impervious to the cold. “What is?”

“You’re taking me home and you’re not even fucking me. It’s pathetic. It’s-- it’s... sorry,” Arthur grunts out, leaning his head against the glove compartment. “You don’t have to bring me anywhere.”

Eames is fairly stunned at Arthur’s bluntness. And _god_ , how he wishes Arthur wasn’t so drunk so he could bring him home and fuck the shit out of him. “Um, it’s not that embarrassing. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Arthur smiles slightly and leans back into the seat again, closing his eyes. Eames looks at him momentarily, the way his fingers are crossed over his stomach and his lips are curved up ever so slightly, and Eames wants to kiss him so badly. He reminds himself that he’s barely known the man’s name for more than a few minutes, and he knows nothing about him at all, but he runs a hand over Arthur’s shoulder comfortingly anyway, and then starts driving.

It’s completely silent until they reach Arthur’s street, at which point Arthur directs Eames along until they reach his apartment. Eames gets out and helps Arthur out of the car and onto the sidewalk, where he promptly throws up approximately eight glasses of whiskey. Eames is surprised that it didn’t happen sooner.

He puts his cool hand on Arthur’s neck once he’s done, and wipes the sweat from his skin.

“Thanks,” Arthur says, wobbling as he stands. “For the ride, I mean. And the drinks. I don’t think I ever paid for those.”

Eames shrugs. “Well, nothing I can do about it now.” He takes his hand off of Arthur’s neck and pats his back. “Take care of yourself, Arthur,” he instructs, and takes off, not wanting to spend another minute getting to know this man who he would never see again. He gets in his car and determinedly doesn’t watch as Arthur stares at him as he drives away.

Eames gets home and skips his usual late dinner to get one off on his couch, his head in his free hand, his fingertips running over his skin as thoughts of Arthur’s hot skin and pink lips and adorable fucking dimples go through his horrible traitor of brain.

He groans horribly loudly as he comes into some tissues, and feels instantly ashamed of himself for reasons he can’t quite describe.

“What is wrong with me?” he asks himself, and gets up to throw the tissues away. He needs a fucking boyfriend.

***

Arthur wakes up the next morning hungover as fuck, and can unfortunately remember every single second of last night, including the part where he blatantly told that really attractive bartender that he was embarrassed he wasn’t going to get fucked by him. God, Arthur really hates himself sometimes. If he ever had any chance with the guy, it was gone the second he said that.

Although, then again, he hadn’t seemed immediately grossed out by the suggestion, just... thrown. So maybe there is a possibility he was as attracted to Arthur as Arthur had been to him.

_Not that it matters_ , Arthur reminds himself. _I am never going to that bar again._

He stays in bed for ten more minutes before his headache gets too painful to bear and he needs to stand up and get some Advil. His headache gets worse with every step he takes, and he forces himself to not look at his reflection before swinging open the medicine cabinet and popping five Advil at once. He swallows them down with a swig of water and before slowly walking back to his bed and falling back asleep.

Arthur spends most of his day off asleep, actually, which is probably a good thing. He really does need to catch up on his sleep. However, sleeping all day does have its repercussions, mostly that Arthur doesn’t have a chance to do everything he was planning to do.

One of those things, he realizes two mornings later, being grocery shopping. Arthur opens the fridge looking for milk to put in his coffee only to find that he doesn’t have any milk left. Fuck, looking more closely he doesn’t really have much at all. He resolves to leave work early and stop by his local convenience store to stock up.

He barely gets through work without punching Nash, the co-worker who kept saying he would make New Year’s Resolutions to do better at work and has done absolutely nothing. Arthur doesn’t know why he’s surprised, honestly.

He leaves work at six that night, exhausted down to his bones, and walks to the grocery store, making a mental list in his head of what he needs to buy. He walks through the sliding doors and absentmindedly picks up a basket from his right, still going through his list in his head. This is probably the reason why he walks straight into a man who seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

Arthur, not expecting it, staggers back a bit, and is about to give the man a piece of his mind when he looks up, and oh, fuck -

“You’re the bartender,” Arthur says.

“And you’re the man who likes to get spectacularly pissed by himself on New Year’s Eve,” the man responds. “Arthur, was it?”

“Uh, yeah,” Arthur says, wrongfooted. It’s only then that Arthur realizes he doesn’t what the guy’s name is. “I, uh, I don’t think I ever got your name?” Arthur desperately hates how pathetic he sounds.

“As I remember you were spectacularly pissed at the time, so I’m sure your lapse in common courtesy can be excused,” he says graciously. “I’m Eames.”

“Like the chair?” Arthur asks, quirking an eyebrow.

Eames laughs, and the sound sends a punch through Arthur’s gut. “Yes, just like the chair. What are you, a 1950’s interior design expert?”

“Architecture and design major, actually,” Arthur offers, starting to feel a bit more comfortable in the conversation.

“My closest friend is a design major,” he says with a smile. “She loved it, but it’s definitely not my thing.”

“Oh? And what is ‘your thing’?” Arthur asks, putting air quotes around “your thing.”

“English,” Eames says. “I’m a poet.”

“A poet who works as a bartender. How cliché,” Arthur says dryly, but he’s smiling.

Eames coughs. “I, uh,” he says. “I own the bar, actually. It was my cousin’s, but he moved to Spain and left it with me, so now it’s mine.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, feeling wrongfooted once again.

“Yeah. So I’m like every single other desperate writer in this city,” Eames says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Just waiting to be discovered.”

“Well, I’m sure it’ll happen eventually,” Arthur says, and internally curses at himself for sounding stupid. Eames smiles and starts to say something, but then his phone begins to ring. He holds up his pointer finger and mouths, “One minute” at Arthur.

Eames walks down one of the aisles as he talks on the phone, forehead creasing. He comes back after two minutes. “I have to go, my sister is staying with me for the holidays and she locked herself out of my flat, so I have to let her in... but, uh, hey, could I get your number? I’d like to see you again.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, pleasantly surprised. “Yeah, sure. Here, just put your number in and I’ll text you.” He hands Eames his phone, and watches as the other man enters his name.

“I’ll see you, Arthur,” Eames says, waving on the way out. Arthur watches him go, and then sends off a quick text before he can worry about being too forward. If Eames asked to exchange numbers with him after he saw Arthur at his worst, it’s not like there’s much more Arthur can lose. _Can you get dinner this Friday, or do you have a shift to work?_

He gets a response almost immediately. _no, friday sounds good do u have a place in mind?_

_There’s a new Italian place a couple of blocks from my apartment... I can’t promise it’ll be good, but I’d love to see._

_that sounds brilliant c u friday._

Arthur smiles at the message before pocketing his phone and continuing to shop for groceries, feeling considerably cheered. His January is starting to look a whole lot better than his December was.

***

Eames is definitely more nervous than he should be, _‘Cause, I mean, I drove him home drunk from my bar and he was embarrassed because he thought we should be fucking and he’s the one who should be nervous_ , he thinks to himself, and runs a hand over the front of his sport jacket, wiping off a speck of dust that he might’ve just imagined.

_leaving now, c u in a few?_ Eames texts him after much deliberation, never having been more ashamed of the way he types before.

He steps out of his apartment, locking the door behind him, and treads slowly down the stairs, not wanting to be too far away from home if Arthur decides to cancel suddenly. It feels like there’s a rock suddenly sitting in his stomach and he can’t will it away.

_It’s just a date_ , he thinks. _Just a date._

He gets in his car reluctantly and feels his phone vibrate in the pocket. He takes it out and opens the message, smiling at Arthur’s name.

_Looking forward to it._

With renewed excitement, Eames grins and starts up the car, speeding off to the restaurant. He parks easily and gets out, looking around for the place and instead sees Arthur, waving at him from across the street. Eames smiles gently at him and his stomach flips over. He opens the back seat and pulls out his gloves and flowers, stuffing the gloves in his pocket and cradling the Calla Lilies to his chest. He races across the street and stands in front of Arthur on the sidewalk.

Arthur stares at the flowers skeptically and Eames shrinks back, thinking that the flowers were a bad idea.

“Did you... get me flowers?” Arthur asks, and Eames nods.

“Um,” Eames begins, and he swears that he’s blushing. “Yeah. It doesn’t matter, I can get rid of them if you don’t want them--”

“They’re very nice, Eames,” Arthur says, and starts blushing himself.

“R-really?” Eames asks, surprised.

“Yeah, thank you so much,” Arthur says as Eames hands over the flowers and Arthur breathes them in deeply, smiling as he does so. “Shall we go in?”

Eames grins and nods. He wants to grab Arthur’s hand, but thinks it’s too soon, that they’ve only known each other for a couple of hours all together, and the majority of that time, Arthur was completely wasted.

Instead, they just walk inside and get escorted to a private table near the back of the main room. They sit down and tuck themselves in, and Eames can’t take his eyes away from Arthur’s lips as he licks them, looking at the menu.

“So what are you thinking?” Arthur asks about a minute later, looking up from the list, and Eames realizes that he hasn’t even looked at it yet.

“Uh, maybe we could split two things? That way we can try more,” Eames suggests, and Arthur smiles.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Arthur says, and Eames metaphorically pats himself on the back.

“So how about Chicken Parmesan? You can choose the other one,” Arthur says and Eames nods.

“Linguine with clam sauce?” Eames asks hesitantly, and Arthur smiles. Eames really likes Arthur’s smile.

“Sure.”

They order their drinks and their food, and Eames is surprised when Arthur doesn’t order scotch or a martini or just straight up vodka, just a diet coke. Eames orders the same.

“The bartender isn’t having a drink?” Arthur asks, and Eames grimaces.

“I could say the same thing about you, Mr. Wasted,” Eames retorts, his offense unwarranted.

Arthur holds up his hands in a sign on peace and shrugs. “That’s not something I usually do. I just have some baggage that comes along with New Year’s Eve.”

Eames nods, embarrassed, and looks down at the table cloth. “Sorry,” he says ashamedly. “It’s a touchy subject for me as well.”

It’s awkward then for just a moment, and Eames can’t say he’s entirely at fault for that, but then Arthur launches into speech about this asshole at work who never does what he’s supposed to do and his job and Eames follows along, asking the right questions to be followed with intellectual answers.

Arthur stops suddenly. “I’m sorry, I’m basically hogging the entire conversation.”

Eames just grins. “I don’t really mind, darling, you’re very interesting,” he says and watches as Arthur jumps a bit at the pet name and blushes again.

Their food comes out then and is set between them with a flourish. They grin at each other as they each pile the food onto their plates, Eames watching intently as Arthur licks his lips again and his dimples come out.

Arthur immediately starts in on the chicken, and Eames has to keep images of old ladies in swimsuits in his mind as Arthur groans at the taste.

“Good?” Eames asks weakly and Arthur nods, closing his eyes in rapture. “That’s... good.” He takes a bite of the pasta in an attempt to calm his salivating mouth, but even when he’s swallowed it down, it does no good. His eyes go straight back to Arthur’s stupid, gorgeous mouth and watches as another piece of chicken slides past his lips.

They don’t talk for a while, utterly consumed by the deliciousness of the food. Among the chatter of the rest of the room, all Eames hears from their own table is the clanking of silverware against plates.

Arthur eventually pushes away his dish, apparently stuffed. He smiles, satiated. “I love when everyone is enjoying their food so much that nobody talks. It’s relaxing,” Arthur remarks, and Eames smiles at him hesitantly.

“How so?” Eames asks, nervous.

“Well, you have all through the appetizers and the wait for the food to talk, and if you’re comfortable, you can feel it. You don’t have to make stilted conversation while you’re eating. You can just enjoy yourself,” he explains, waving his hands around awkwardly. Eames finds it quite endearing.

“I see what you mean,” Eames says, gesturing vaguely between them. They order a small dessert and coffee, and this time it’s Eames’ turn to talk.

He tells Arthur about his life growing up in England and the bar and his poetry and Arthur tells him that he’d love to read it some time.

“And, the thing that happened before. About the coke and the drink thing,” Eames begins, and stops to pat his mouth with a napkin, wiping away a bit of leftover chocolate. “I’m sorry I overreacted.”

Arthur waves him off. “Really, don’t worry about it. I know that--”

“Well, actually,” Eames interrupts, “there’s something you should probably know about me if we’re going to be in any sort of relationship.”

Arthur nods for him to go on, perhaps a little bashful at the thought of being Eames’ boyfriend.

Eames clears his throat and smiles, just wanting to get it over with. “I’m an alcoholic,” he says, waiting for the drop of the jaw and the escape through the bathroom window.

Instead, Arthur just raises an eyebrow. “But you own a bar?”

Eames shrugs. “It wasn’t my choice.”

They sit in silence for a minute or two, and Eames half expects Arthur to tell his own story, why he was wasted in Eames’ bar not five days ago, but he receives nothing. The check comes and Eames thinks this is almost worse. Finally, Arthur just smiles.

“That’s pretty okay. My mom was an alcoholic. Struggled with it her whole life,” he explains, and Eames visibly relaxes in his seat.

“Was?” he takes a chance at asking, not really expecting to get a response.

Arthur looks down at his empty plate and sighs. “Yeah. She died on New Year’s Eve two years ago.”

Makes sense, then. “And that’s why you were...”

“Yeah.”

There’s another moment of silence, shorter this time, and then Eames says, “I’m really sorry, and I know people have said that before, but it hasn’t been long since it’s happened and I know it must’ve been really bad, especially so soon after the holidays and I’m sorry about what I said before and you know that I could be here to talk if you wanted me--”

Arthur smiles sadly. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

***

The first block or two they walk from the restaurant is spent in a silence that's not awkward, but not exactly companionable, either. Arthur, admittedly, needs to center himself - this is the first time in almost a year he's told anyone who didn't already know about his mom's death, and the first time in longer than that that he's told someone about his mom being an alcoholic. He doesn't know why, exactly, he told Eames this after only knowing him for a couple of hours, but it probably has something to do with how honest Eames was with him. Arthur may not be the most open person himself, but he can appreciate it when others are. He figured that kind of honesty deserved something in return, especially since it hit so close to home.

And despite how awkward Eames' apology about Arthur's mom had been, it had seemed more sincere than half of the ones he had gotten when his mom had first died, and those had been from family members and friends he'd known for years. Arthur had been pretty close to his mom and seeing his aunts and uncles acting coldly toward her even after she had _died from fucking esophageal cancer_ had really upset him. He hadn't spoken to many of them since her funeral.

He wishes, oddly, that he had known Eames while his mom was dying. He knows that Eames wouldn't have ostracized his mom like everyone else who surrounded Arthur at the time did, especially since the doctor said her cancer had most likely stemmed from her alcohol abuse.

They're still nine blocks away from Arthur's apartment when Arthur decides that if they're still not talking, _something_ has to be happening, and he'd like very much to hold Eames' hand. He takes his hand out of his jacket pocket, where he'd been keeping it warm due to the fact that his gloves are more fashion than function.

He nudges his hand awkwardly against Eames' wrist as they walk along, Arthur pointedly looking ahead and not at where he wants their hands to be entwined. Eames finally seems to get the message after Arthur's hand hits his wrist three times, and he laces his fingers through Arthur's own.

Arthur smiles and feels a blush creeping over his face, so he looks up to try and avoid Eames' scrutinizing gaze.

"You know," Eames says after a minute or so, hand still gripped tightly in Arthur's. "I think the thing I hate most about living in a city is that you can't see nearly as many stars."

Surprisingly, Arthur can empathize. "I know. I grew up in a small town in the middle of Iowa, and only ended up here after college. The only thing I still miss about living in the middle of nowhere is definitely the stars. My dad had taught me most of the constellations by the time I was six."

Eames hums, but says nothing. Arthur's starting to think that he said the wrong thing - he certainly doesn't let himself get this sentimental normally - but then Eames says, "My favourite was always Orion, growing up. But I think I like Cygnus best now."

"Perseus has always been mine, but Cygnus is a close second," he says, and it feels nice to talk about it with someone who doesn't find the fact that Arthur spent summers stargazing weird. But, hey, in Iowa it was either that or get wasted, and stargazing generally required less noise and less people than getting wasted did. Ninety-nine times out of 100 Arthur would choose stargazing.

They arrive at Arthur's apartment sooner than Arthur would like, and Arthur stands in front of the door to his building. "This is me, then," he says, disentangling his hand from Eames'.

"Oh," Eames says, and then before Arthur can say anything else, he kisses Arthur on the mouth. It's a good kiss, Arthur thinks dizzily, as far as first kisses go. Eames knows the right amount of pressure to put into it, and isn't overly demanding with his tongue like a lot of guys are. Arthur gives as good as he's getting until he remembers that breathing is kind of something he needs to do if he'd like to survive.

They're both breathing deeply when they pull back, and Arthur's eyes are immediately drawn to the glow of Eames' lips in the streetlight. They're swollen and red from their kiss, making them even fuller than they had been before. His pupils are dilated, Arthur notices, but then Arthur's brain short circuits a bit when Eames licks his lips.

Arthur leans in to kiss Eames again, more demanding this time, going so far as to let a small moan escape his mouth even though they're still outside. Eames shivers in response and moves his hands from Arthur's neck to the hem of Arthur's t-shirt.

Arthur has a rule about having sex with someone after the first date, and that rule is simple: don't. One night stands are fine because you're not looking for anything besides sex with that person, but if you're hoping to build a relationship, Arthur is of the adamant belief that sex should wait until at least the second date.

But Arthur is so attracted to Eames it's painful, and he hasn't been laid in five months, since the one night stand he had two days after his ex broke up with him. _Fuck it_ , he thinks, and then pulls back from Eames. "Do you want to come up to mine?" he asks, breathless.

Eames doesn't hesitate with his response. "Yes. God, yes."

Arthur starts digging through his jacket pocket for the key, and finds it after a few seconds. Eames, not wanting to be ignored, makes his presence known by cupping his hand around Arthur's hip.

"You're distracting me," Arthur huffs as he tries to turn the key in the lock.

"Oh?" Eames says, his voice all mock surprise.

"Yes, oh,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. “If it's any motivation, the sooner you stop distracting me, the sooner I get the key in the door and the sooner we make it to my apartment.”

Arthur would laugh at Eames for how quickly his hand falls away, but he's too concentrated on trying to get his goddamned door to open. He finally gets it open, and Eames grabs his hand immediately. Arthur tries desperately to pretend he isn’t blushing.

This kind of goes to shit when Eames whispers, "You look so pretty when you blush," making what should be a PG comment sound completely filthy. Arthur decides he's too impatient to wait five more flights of stairs to kiss Eames again, so he does, pushing Eames up against the railing.

"Let's get upstairs, shall we, darling?" Eames asks when they break apart, and Arthur can’t nod fast enough.

***

Eames can’t keep his fingers off Arthur, his shoulder, his hip, the back of his neck. Even if it stops them from getting inside, it doesn’t matter, as long as he’s touching Arthur in some way.

“Eames, please,” Arthur begs, and Eames just laughs. Finally, the door to the apartment opens and they burst inside, lips furiously attached, door slamming closed behind them. Eames cups Arthur’s face, slowing them down momentarily, just to get some appreciation in before he ravages him.

Arthur doesn’t seem to want to take this in stride, what with his hands clawing at Eames’ chest, his heavy breathing and his eyes shut so tight it looks like he’s already come.

“Open your eyes, darling,” Eames instructs, and Arthur hesitantly complies, licking his lips, so close to Eames’ own. “Slow down. It’s not a race.”

Arthur lets out a deep breath, and Eames loves the look in his eyes, all the want and need there. Usually he would be the one to want to hurry this along, but he genuinely likes Arthur, wants to keep seeing him after this, and doesn’t want Arthur to think this isn’t what it is.

Eames leans in and gently presses his lips to Arthur’s, and Arthur smiles slightly in turn. When Eames pulls back, he motions with his hands for Arthur to show the way, and so he does, grabbing Eames’ hand and tugging him forward.

They pass through Arthur’s living room - without a tree, Eames notices - and he gestures around vaguely before pushing Eames down onto the couch and taking off his own shirt. Eames is only slightly surprised as Arthur moves to straddle him, his knees on either side of Arthur’s hips. He has to resist the urge to push up, his cock already semi hard, even without having been touched, and instead puts one hand on each of Arthur’s thighs. Arthur moves down and presses a light kiss to Eames’ neck, and Eames groans. Arthur licks around the skin, sucking lightly, and Eames can hardly wait to look in the mirror and see the bruise that’s going to form there.

He runs his hands up Arthur’s thighs and Arthur bucks forward in response, provoking a guttural noise from both of them. Eames really, really can’t wait anymore.

He holds back for another moment or two because Arthur’s lips on his neck just feel really good, but then he pushes upwards and clears his throat.

“Bedroom?” he asks, and Arthur smiles and slides off, running his hand not-so-accidentally down the front of Eames’ jeans. Arthur pulls him up and he goes eagerly, watching Arthur’s ass as he walks through the hallway to the right and into his room. Once there, Arthur tugs off Eames’ shirt and caresses down from his neck to the top of his pants, all the while kissing him, tongue slipping out to taste Eames’ bottom lip.

“On the bed,” Eames demands, guiding Arthur back until his knees hit the edge and he falls downward slowly, Eames following. He takes a moment to unbutton Arthur’s pants, pulling them off and dropping them onto the floor unceremoniously. He stares at Arthur’s nearly naked form, the tenting of his briefs, and wants nothing more than to be inside of him.

He has other plans first, though.

He sinks down to his knees and pulls Arthur forward a bit by his hips, so the he can lean in and ever-so-gently take off his underwear with his teeth. Arthur shudders dangerously underneath his hold and Eames grins, taking them off the rest of the way with his hands. Arthur’s cock pops up, already hard, and Eames licks up the side once before taking the entire thing into his mouth. He loosens his jaw and flattens his tongue so that he can feel the head against the back of his throat, and Arthur lets out a noise that makes Eames even harder than he already is. Eames sucks gently before releasing it halfway, bobbing his head up and down, occasionally coming up for air.

Arthur’s hands find their way into Eames’ hair, not pushing, just gripping and pulling, almost to the point of pain. Eames has never enjoyed that kind of thing before, but just the thought that Arthur can’t stand not to, that this is how Arthur gets a hold of himself, keeps Eames going.

When Arthur starts bucking up into his mouth, he pulls away and kisses upward, up his stomach and into his chest, flicking Arthur’s nipple with his tongue. Arthur laughs throatily and Eames grins down at him.

“Ready?” he asks, and Arthur nods, eyes falling low. He grabs a condom and lube from his nightstand and hands it to Eames, who places it on the bed so he can take off his own pants. Once stripped of them, he squirts a gratuitous amount of lube onto his fingers and pushes Arthur back slightly, pulling him up so that his legs are in the air. He spreads the lube around Arthur’s hole, and then gently slips in one finger, waiting for Arthur to relax.

“It’s been a long time,” Arthur says breathily, groaning. He pushes forward slightly. “Keep going,” he urges.

Eames pushes in and out gently with one finger for a while, and when it slides nicely and easily, he puts in another. Arthur’s groans are turning into moans now, and so Eames inserts a third finger, and he just wants in at this point.

“Please, Eames,” Arthur begs, and Eames pulls his fingers out and climbs onto the bed, more than ready. Arthur twists around to meet him and goes up for one last kiss, needy and desperate, before Eames slowly pushes in, letting Arthur clench around him as he bottoms out.

“Good?” Eames asks, not wanting to hurt him.

“Just go,” Arthur demands. “Go.”

And so Eames does, thrusting in and out, slowly at first, but with increasing speed as the noises coming from their mouths become louder and louder. He reaches for a pillow near Arthur’s head and pushes it underneath Arthur’s lower back for better leverage. Arthur chokes out what Eames is sure is a sound of pleasure, so Eames leans forward and kisses him senselessly, breathlessly.

“You’re so good, Arthur,” Eames says against his lips, rutting against him, not wanting to pull out further. Arthur just laughs and pushes back, desperate for friction. Eames holds completely still, his hands by Arthur’s head, and Arthur looks like he’s about to cry from lack of movement.

“Come _on_ , Eames,” he begs, his voice dry. Eame grunts and thrust forward once, twice, three times, and Arthur comes all over his own stomach and Eames would smile if he could, if he wasn’t on the verge of coming himself. It only takes another minute before Eames is blinded by the whiteness behind his eyelids and the shudders wracking throughout his body as he collapses on top of Arthur. He can feel Arthur’s come all over his stomach, and he doesn’t even find that disgusting, not like he normally would. Arthur is running his hands through his hair and Eames can’t even really breathe properly, he’s so satiated.

He eventually pulls out and rolls over when he feels Arthur struggling, and loves the way Arthur turns his head and smiles at him, like this is the only place he’d ever want to be.

“Hold on,” Eames says, and starts to get up, preparing to go to the bathroom, but Arthur just pulls him back down.

“It’s my house,” he says, and gets up himself. “So it’s my job.”

Eames doesn’t have the energy in him to counter this, so he just lays there and waits, watching as Arthur comes back into the room, clean and with a wet towel. He cleans Eames off gently and discards the condom into the wastebasket near the door. Eames reaches for him as he climbs back into bed and kisses him, one hand on the back of his neck.

“Good? Not good?” Eames asks, just for reassurance.

Arthur laughs. “Good. Very good.”

Eames smiles and closes his eyes as Arthur throws his arm around Eames’ waist.

“Happy New Year, Eames,” Arthur mutters into his neck, and Eames smiles and slings his arm over Arthur’s shoulder, not pointing out that it’s been the new year for six days already.

“Happy New Year, darling,” Eames says back, pressing a kiss into Arthur’s hair. _Maybe things will turn around for me this year_ , he thinks fuzzily. And as Arthur snuggles into Eames’ embrace, Eames can’t help but believe it.


End file.
